The Heart Of The Beast----Page 7

Sonic landscape. Reverie at dawn. To
take the last remnants of the night and
embrace them until they dissolve into dust
from the sheer force of will. One morning
I sat my muse down at the table and
finding her useless I slapped her.
The bird of prey stalks its victim with
a patience only known to beast. It would
perhaps take years to reap the rewards of
the hunt. Wings stretched. Taking her by
the neck.
The savage urge to survive and thrive.
Civilization is but a sloppy amount of rouge
applied to the human animal's face. Would
it be possible to wash the blood off of our
trembling hands? Are we vindicated like the
jackal? Acting out of natural instinct?
The search continues along the bloody terrain.
Is inspiration a curse? Would she emerge
from the wreckage wiser and more articulate
in her artistry? Or perhaps only a shattered
memory of what was and a forbidden expression
of what could ever be?
The morning lapses into afternoon. The
day becomes a preparation for the returning
night. The questions remain unanswered and
forgotten in the heat. Fanning away the last
vestiges of rational thought. Anticipating the
moral ambiguity of darkness. Bracing ourselves
against the turning of the globe. Reaching
for the last ray of sunlight amidst the
conquering night.